


let him be scared of me

by Dialux



Series: gentle mother, strength of women [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s), pulling together family trees and serving up head canons is my JAM guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9586442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: [A tribute to northern mothers; forgotten, unnamed, or maligned.]Lyarra Stark is a sister, a daughter, and a woman of the North. She is a Flint and a Stark; the daughter of Arya Fleetfoot and the Wandering Wolf. When her sister goes south to marry and never once sends a raven, Lyarra does not accept it quietly.Thirty years before Rickard Stark dies in the Red Keep, he meets a girl named Lyarra.Or: Rickard’s southern ambitions were never solely his....Lyanna was a girl who was as brave as one older brother and as quiet as another. She was as lovely as she was selfish, she was as loving as she was bitter, she was as wise as she was impulsive.But more than anything, Lyanna was a child.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a long one, encompassing each of the nine realms- it's an attempt to explore the lives and emotions of two mothers from each realm, specifically those who are nameless, died in childbirth, etc. This installment focuses on Lyarra (mother of Brandon, Ned, Lyanna, and Benjen) and Lyanna Stark. 
> 
> The only things we know about Lyarra is that her father was a Stark; Rickard is her cousin. Her mother was a Flint of the mountains, and she had one sister, Branda, who went south to marry a Stormlord. We do not know how/when she died. Rickard is known for his southron ambitions- and that, in the end, is literally everything. Pulling all these strings together, you get this story.

**i. Lyarra Stark**

**...**

Once upon a time, a girl watched her sister walk away.

This is not how the story ends.

…

When Lyarra was a young girl, her father disappeared into the night. He never returned to her. Lyarra never again looked into his eyes, though she saw them whenever she looked at a mirror.

This was a choice. This was a thing she decided, eyes open and heart peeled wide. Lyarra learned at a young age what she stood to lose if she looked away, so she chose not to for the rest of her life. This was one of the steadiest things she knew to be.

She was fourteen when she first made that choice.

They went down the mountainside, she and her mother, for a family reunion at Winterfell. Her father was there- visiting, from Essos- and he’d brought a mistress with him. Her mother didn’t even wait to leave the courtyard before she started to shout.

The others winced, but didn’t look surprised.

Lyarra tossed her hair and wondered if she’d ever leave her mother’s shadow. If Lyarra watched the world, who watched her? Who was she, this ghost-girl who looked like her father reborn?

When Branda turned fifteen, she went south, to the Stormlands to wed. Two years passed, and Lyarra never received a raven from her own sister. Her mother and father were busy consuming each other, being the most important people in their own orbits; forgetting, as usual, all the fallout that resulted from their selfishness.

Branda had been a thoughtless sacrifice, offered up by two people who watched her leave and promptly forgot she existed. Lyarra had watched her sister disappear down the mountainside and she hadn’t wept a single tear because she was a Flint of the mountains- tears froze in Lyarra’s eyes before they ever fell. But she had brewed Branda’s favorite tea for months, just to smell that peculiar smoke-sweet scent. She had fed the birds that Branda had first fostered on their terrace, though she’d always found them irritating. She had wrapped Branda’s shawls around her shoulders as if they were plate armor and smiled, every morning, when everyone seemed to have forgotten her.

Arya Flint and Rodrick Stark: two terribly thoughtless, selfish parents. Lyarra could survive their forgetfulness, but she wasn’t sure her sister could. Branda had always been the softest of them.

 _It is the duty of the father to protect his daughters,_ she thought, and rubbed the grey stone walls of Winterfell. _It is the duty of the father to see his daughter’s husband, to ensure she is happy, to ensure her husband protects her when he is not there to do it._

_This is your duty, Father._

And in the end, Lyarra was her mother’s daughter: quiet did not slumber in her bones. She was her father’s daughter: she did not know how to stand still. She had her mother’s pride and her father’s desires. She was as fierce as a Stark, but even more than that, she was as cold as a Flint. Once set on a path, she was as unshakeable as an avalanche.

One cold morning, Lyarra wrapped Branda’s oldest shawl around her shoulders and thought, _enough._ It had been a long, sleepless night, listening to her parents scream at each other. It had been a raw, infuriating week before that. It had been a tense, unhappy two years before that.

 _Enough,_ she thought, and ran a hand down her father’s oldest bow, still well-oiled in the home of his ancestors.

_If you will not do your duty, I will._

…

When Lyarra was a young woman, she went down the same paths her sister did, and instead of going south she went to Winterfell. It took her days to learn how to breathe the heavy air in the flatlands- everything felt too heavy on her chest. She wondered if Branda had felt the same, when she left.

They arrived at Winterfell, and Lyarra felt the same crushing weight on her chest at the sight of her father.

She turned away.

In doing so, she caught the eyes of a boy, tall and lanky and dark-haired as Starks seemed to be.

 _Rickard,_ she thought. Willam’s grandson- the grandson of the Lord of Winterfell, and the third in line to the lordship after his uncle Brandon and then his own father, Edwyle.

Lyarra met his wolf-pale eyes and dared him to pity her.

See: Lyarra was young. She was young, but not stupid. She watched everyone laugh at poor, awkward Rickard- she watched him flush a brilliant red and named him proud. She watched their family sneer when he was quiet in the yard, and named him reserved. She watched him trounce each of their cousins in the yard without breaking a sweat, and named him _intelligent._

 _Respect him,_ she thought, and hefted the bow before stepping forwards.

…

“Are you any good with a bow?”

He blinked, but there was a gleam in his eye. “Are _you?”_

“Passable.” Lyarra grinned at him, suddenly, abruptly; teeth bared like a skin-stripped skull.

“As am I,” he murmured.

She nodded and tossed him a bow. He caught it without a grimace, looking at her with a barely perceptible question in his eyes. Lyarra brushed her braids back and arched a challenging brow.

_I see you, Stark. I see you. Do you understand me yet? Do you fear me yet?_

_I. See. You._

…

Lyarra left in the early ghost-hours before dawn on a horse and a week’s provisions. She awoke the next morning to a sword at her throat.

Rickard watched her levelly.

“I didn’t think you’d be so foolish,” he said.

“What, to leave?”

“To be caught so easily.”

Lyarra blinked, grinned, and yanked her hand to the side.

He yelped as his foot caught in the trap and he was pulled upside down. His sword clattered to the ground, and she picked it up, hefting the weight easily.

“I don’t answer to you,” she told him. “Not now. Not ever. Go back to your home, little Stark. Leave the chasing to your elders.”

“I caught you,” he pointed out.

Lyarra arched an eyebrow and nodded. Once upon a time, Branda had taught her to play the flute by playing games. Once upon a time, Lyarra hadn’t been able to breathe in this heavy flatland air. Once upon a time, Lyarra had looked at this boy and named him smart.

_Let him prove it._

“Alright,” she said. “Alright. I’ll cut you down, Rickard. If you catch me thrice more, I’ll even go back to Winterfell quietly.”

“And what do you get out of it?” He asked suspiciously.

Lyarra grinned, nasty and hard and _alive._

“A sword,” she said, and swung at the string keeping him aloft.

…

Rickard caught her the next time when she was just beyond the Neck.

Lyarra felt her lips twitch into a smile, her eyes widen with acknowledgement of the point lost- she nodded, and Rickard’s face softened the tiniest bit. Lyarra tossed her hair and watched him melt into the mist like the wolf he named himself, awaiting the next meeting.

…

He found her next as she bathed in hot springs close to the Vale.

Lyarra emerged from the water with her hair dripping down her back, shift wicked to her skin. It took her a moment to realize that she wasn’t alone- and when she finally saw Rickard, she could see the dark flush over his cheeks. The moonlight seemed to soften his hard features, and for less than a heartbeat, Lyarra felt something unfurl in the pit of her belly.

Then she arched an eyebrow.

“Find me again, and I’ll come back.”

He moved forwards, skirting along the shadows and keeping his eyes locked onto Lyarra’s face.

“I’ve caught you three times already,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” said Lyarra. “But the challenge began after you caught me that first time.”

He hesitated. “I- fine.” His hands clenched, pale white fists. “Let’s change this… _challenge.”_

“What do you have in mind?”

“Give me my sword,” said Rickard. “And I’ll take you- wherever you’re going. Keep you safe.”

“I’ve kept myself safe enough thus far,” she replied, mildly.

Rickard’s face shadowed briefly. “You’ve been in the North thus far. The lands are protected by the Starks- it’s safe. But past the Twins you’ll find yourself in real trouble if you aren’t always on guard. And two people are always better than one.”

Lyarra watched him carefully, measuring. After a long moment, she nodded.

…

“Why’d you follow me?” Lyarra asked, a week later.

Rickard stirred the fire carefully and didn’t look up at her. “Why’d you go south?”

“I asked you first.”

“I was afraid of your mother.”

Lyarra snorted and tossed a pinecone onto the fire; the sparks lit up the slope of his nose, the arch of his jaw. She stared into the flames and wondered if Rickard ever saw anything in the brightness.

“You know Mother well?”

“I know _of_ Arya Flint,” said Rickard, still staring into the fire. Lyarra waited, and Rickard continued. “I know she’s got a tongue sharper than any Valyrian steel. She’s strong as the mountains she comes from, and as cold as that stone. She frightens half the people in Winterfell, and the other half love her more than they love your father, despite having blood ties to _him.”_

“Mother’s strong,” Lyarra explained, quietly. “Father didn’t love her. He did, once, according to my cousin- but then he realized that he’d never be much of anything in the mountains. Not after I was born. See, it was a hard birth, and the maester said that any more children and Mother would die. She couldn’t give him any sons, and that- angered him.”

“Because you wouldn’t take his name?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “And then Mother fought with him. Everyone says that was one of the longest fights they’ve ever heard. At the end of it, Father went down the mountainside and refused to go up it for the rest of his life.”

Rickard looked at her, steadily, calmly.

“So Father didn’t love Mother, but that didn’t break her. But Branda- she’s always been the soft one, you know?” Lyarra dug for the words. “When she was home, she’d get up in the mornings to feed the birds. Even when we were starving and weren’t sure we’d make it through winter- she’d find something, somehow, and offer it to these little things. Anyone else would’ve hunted them down. But she’d just do it, and she’d chase anyone who tried to hurt those winged beasts away because- because- I don’t even know.”

She sighed. “Mother could live without Father’s love, and I can bear not having a husband’s love, too. But Mother can live without _anyone’s_ love, and- and I can’t. I love Branda, and if she’s hurting, if she’s- if anything’s happened to her, she deserves to have the option of leaving.”

“And you’re your father’s daughter, too,” Rickard said. “You wanted to travel, too.”

“My father wanted to leave his world behind,” said Lyarra. “All I want to do is see it.” She paused, and it was her turn to look at Rickard carefully, through her lashes. “And you? Why’d you follow me, Stark-boy? C’mon, tell me, I promise to keep your secrets.”

Rickard leaned back, a smile shadowing his features like a ghostly friend.

“I had a sister,” he said suddenly. “When I was ten. She lived for two years, but- not much longer. A winter sickness, the maesters said. Nothing that could be done.”

He paused, and Lyarra waited him out, because she was learning this boy’s edges now, she was learning that when he spoke he never said all he wanted, she was learning that he was as intelligent as he was quiet. For him, Lyarra could learn patience.

“If she ever went south,” he said, suddenly, fiercely, passionate, “if she ever went south and nobody thought about her after that, if I was the only one who seemed to even care- I wouldn’t so much as look back. I’d ride south and stay south for as long as needed. So I can understand why you’re doing this.”

Lyarra felt warmth flutter down to her toes like good ale. _Yes,_ she thought. _Yes, you understand: I love her. I love her, and I will not let anyone tell me when my duty is ended. My sister and I are not pieces to be used in our parents’ resentments. We are people, we are alive, breathing, aching people- and we will protect each other as we must, as we can._

She grinned up at him, bright and airy as the muggy southron air wasn’t.

“And, of course, you were afraid of my mother,” she teased.

“Of course,” he deadpanned. “Terrified of what she’d tell me if I went to her and told her that I’d let you run off into the night.”

Lyarra tossed her head back and laughed. Rickard looked away into the darkness, and though he didn’t laugh as loud, his features softened, immeasurably, miniscule.

…

They traveled south, past the Neck, past the Twins, past the Trident, all the way to the Stormlands.

Lyarra went paler the further they went, as if the heat was leaching the life from her bones. She wondered if Branda felt deadened as well, this far south, or if the heat had changed her sister, had given her new life.

Rickard didn’t speak often, but he did press his hands to her back when Lyarra glared into the night sky, daring it to soak them in their sleep for three consecutive days. He watched her set traps and skin the trapped animals easily. He sharpened her knives when Lyarra’s became blunt.

This was as close to someone not of her blood that Lyarra had ever gotten.

…

Weeks later, they arrived at a small inn in the Crownlands.

Lyarra blinked when Rickard led them to a single room- he flushed under her arch look.

“Our gold’s running low,” he said. “And it isn’t safe for an unarmed woman to be alone in a room. Not here, at least.”

“No,” drawled Lyarra. “Gods forbid we find ourselves in a situation as to compromise our virtue.”

His cheeks turned darker. “My lady-”

 _“My lady,_ is it?” Lyarra walked into the room and waved Rickard inside impatiently. “No, don’t bother- there’s no point. If anyone catches us here anyhow, they’ll be looking for me alone; not both of us. And it’s far too hot to be arguing over such unimportance now, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d thought the fires in the seventh hell wouldn’t be enough to stop your arguing,” Rickard mumbled under his breath, but he stepped into the room anyways.

…

That night, Lyarra awoke to flame.

Rickard grabbed her hand and dragged her outside, choking on the smoke. Lyarra bit her tongue and followed. It was outside, hands wrapped around each other, heads bent together, finding calm that didn’t exist inside them, that they looked back- that they saw the people standing outside the hall, a woman crumpled against the ground, wailing.

“My child,” she screamed. _“My daughter!_ She’s in there! Please, please, _please-_ someone save her! _Please!”_

But nobody moved. Lyarra frowned, and felt Rickard stiffen beside her. A moment later, the beams of the inn shifted, and it collapsed in on itself. There was no chance for anyone to have survived that.

The woman began to scream again. Lyarra bit her tongue again, feeling the blood well up; she waited for someone to do something. Rickard’s hands tightened on her own, but before she could move a woman stepped forward and guided the wailing woman away.

Lyarra glanced around.

They still had their horses, and the vast majority of their belongings were in saddlebags hidden a ways from the town. They could fade into the night easily enough- but the fire was a mystery. It’d rained only a week before, and the inn was large; for the fire to have started in the inn, it must have been deliberately set.

_But nobody is looking for the perpetrators._

“Who did this?” She demanded of the inn-keeper.

The man, with silver hair and eyes that looked more worn than Moat Cailin’s ruins, sighed.

“Who else?” He asked. “There’s only one family who’d set fire to inns without fear. M’granddaughter refused King Aerys’ advances, a week ago, and… they’re dragons, innit? They don’t care for us smallfolk. So the kings set fire to our homes and laugh and call it _wakin’ the dragon._ And they’re the kings, aren’t they, so we bend the knee and weep in the night.”

He shook his head and stalked away.

Lyarra turned back to Rickard. Her shock must have shown on her face, and Rickard must have known what the shock would become, because he yanked her by the hand and forced her onto their horses; they were safely ensconced in the woods when she erupted.

“The King!” She snarled, pulling their horse up and sliding off it without waiting for it to stop. “The _King_ did that!”

“Lyarra, you know that not all lords care so much for the smallfolk as we do in the North.” Rickard drew away when she whirled on him, eyes narrowed into slits.

“He’s killed _children,”_ she hissed. “Children, Rickard! And this isn’t the first time he’s done it. Aerys has been king for scarce three years and he’s killing _children.”_

“And what do you want us to do about that?”

Lyarra turned away and stared at the trees. She didn’t speak for the full night, her eyes skittering away from Rickard when he tried to catch her attention. It was when they bedded down for a night, as she stared up at the stars, that she let the words slip out.

“The Targaryens,” she whispered, “do not deserve our loyalty.”

“And what do you suggest _we_ do about it?”

She turned away from Rickard and closed her eyes.

…

Lyarra dreamt, that night, of two girls.

One had hair the red of a fire’s brightest flame, the other the dark of a fire’s last ashes. Lyarra saw the red-haired girl spin through the Vale, lovely as a sunrise. She saw the dark-haired girl standing in the Stormlands, hands tight about a sword and a wolf both. She saw them fight, and then embrace: their bodies wrapped around each other with the same weight as Lyarra embraced Branda.

 _Sisters,_ she thought, and when she looked closer, the dark-haired girl had eyes the same wolf-pale of Rickard, of Lyarra’s own. _Sisters, from the North, living in the south._

The image shattered, and she awoke with a gasp.

…

Weeks later, they arrived at Amberly.

Lyarra felt herself pale at the sight of her sister: Branda wore jewelry richer than most people would ever see in their lives. She laughed with her ladies, brighter than she’d ever done in the mountains.

And as Lyarra choked on an emotion too sharp to swallow, she watched a child, hair dark as the North and eyes the pale gold of amber, leap into her arms. It was the last straw.

She turned and fled, past the guards, past the people, past the stone walls she’d walked into with such proud defiance.

Lyarra left a world behind to save Branda, and Branda didn’t need her. Lyarra abandoned everything for her sister, but Branda forgot Lyarra as soon as she left the mountains. Lyarra went colder, harder, frozen as her mother’s blood, and Branda wore jewels bright as flame around her neck and arms.

 _“Lyarra!”_ She heard a voice call, and then Rickard was there, catching her in his arms, pressing her close to his chest. “Shh, Lyarra, it’s alright. It’ll be alright. Come on, now, breathe, it’ll be better. Lya, it’ll be alright. Come now.”

Her shudders lessened, and then she lifted her head. When she looked over Rickard’s shoulder, she saw Branda, standing only a few feet away, looking sadder than she’d ever looked before.

“Rickard,” she whispered.

He bent closer to her ear. “You don’t have to talk to her. Not if you don’t want.”

Lyarra swallowed. “No,” she said softly. “No, I’ll do this. We came this far, haven’t we?”

“That,” he said, “isn’t the point.”

“I want to,” said Lyarra, firmly. “But- just stay close, alright? We might… leave. Soon.”

“If you want me to spit someone on my sword, I’ll be close enough to hear.” He offered her the faintest smile, chucked her on the chin. “Scream, and I won’t hesitate for a moment.”

…

Branda looked older when Lyarra sat with her. She’d removed her amber jewelry, her dark hair hanging freely to her waist. She didn’t wear any shawls, and this struck Lyarra as the most sacrilegious thing.

“Why’d you come?” Branda asked.

Lyarra felt herself jerk, almost against her will. “Are you mad?” She demanded. “You’re my _sister._ And you’ve not sent word for two years. Did you think that I’d abandon you soon as your husband put a black cloak on your shoulders?”

“I thought Mother would have told you,” replied Branda.

“Told me _what?”_

“Oh, don’t play the fool, Lyarra, it doesn’t suit you,” she said irritably. “You know very well why Mother wanted me gone.”

“...I don’t.”

Branda sighed. “Donnel was courting me. She caught us kissing, and arranged for the furthest marriage she could as quickly as possible.”

“Donnel-” Lyarra’s brows pulled together. “Donnel- the son of Edmure? _That_ Donnel?”

“Yes.”

“I… never heard this,” Lyarra said slowly. “He’s the son of a fourth son, Branda. Little wonder Mother was angered- particularly if you’d been _kissing_ him.”

Branda waved a hand. “That isn’t the point. See, as I left, Mother told me that if I could only send ravens to the North if I apologized for being a- how did she put it- _a stain on her honor._ As if every woman should be as accepting of her fate as herself, as if Mother was even accepting _of_ her fate! No- she simply wanted dolls to use and discard as she could. She only wanted dolls, not daughters born of her blood and the Wandering Wolf’s. She only wanted dolls she could throw in our father’s face as a mark of his sins- and when I refused to be, she sent me away.”

Lyarra stared at her hands for a long moment. “Do you hate her?” She asked quietly.

“Oh, sweetling,” murmured Branda, and stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before embracing her closely. “No, I don’t hate her. Mother has her faults, and… I didn’t see them before. Or I saw them, and ignored them. Just because I won’t be blind any longer doesn’t mean I hate her. She’s our _mother-_ I’ll always love her.”

“I was so afraid,” whispered Lyarra. “I was so angry. And you were the only person who sang the songs well, you know. I didn’t sleep well for _months._ You left, and Mother got colder.”

“And you survived,” her sister commented. “You’ve always been that, Lya: a survivor. You know that the winter after your birth was the coldest winter we’d ever seen. Strong, young men and women- past their twentieth nameday- died, then, and everyone was sure you would as well. But you didn’t. I’m sorry I left; but none of us have a great many choices. We make do with what we have.”

Slowly, Lyarra nodded.

Branda smiled.

“Now, before you leave- tell me who that young man is.” Her smile widened. “And, of course, you’ll have to meet your nephew.”

“Of course,” echoed Lyarra. “And- that man’s Rickard. Rickard Stark.”

Branda paused. “Edwyle’s son?”

“That’s the one.”

“Reaching far higher than me,” said Branda dryly. “Why, the third in line for the lordship- Mother’ll be pleased.”

“Shut _up,”_ snapped Lyarra, and shoved her sister.

…

They stayed for another few days.

Lyarra watched Branda closely. Her sister was happier here than she’d ever been in the North, bright and lovely as a star. Rickard watched over her just as carefully, too- he kept to her side as a shadow, and his hand rarely strayed from the pommel of his sword.

“The Stormlords are kind to their women,” Branda said once.

Lyarra breathed deep and nodded.

…

“Here’s how we’ll bring the Targaryens down,” she said.

Rickard turned and arched a brow. “Are you still hung up on that?”

“Here is _how,”_ she stressed. “See: which realms are closest to the North?”

“The Riverlands,” he drawled. “The Vale. The Crownlands.”

“Forget the Crownlands. And tell me, what is the most peaceful way to bind those realms to our own?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Marriage.”

“Lyarra-”

“Marry me to the Vale,” said Lyarra. “I’ll raise an army easily enough. I’ll _lead_ the army, easily enough. Marry me to the Vale, Rickard, and you marry a woman from the Riverlands. There’s Hoster Tully’s sister, she can do easily enough. And then, be patient. Be careful. Be loyal, up until Aerys’s _dragon_ wakes- and then, _then,_ secede.”

“It all sounds so simple,” said Rickard. “You understand you speak treason?”

“I know that there comes a time when some oaths must be broken,” Lyarra said fiercely. “I know that sometimes kings do not deserve their crowns. I know that the dragons died during Cregan’s time, and we’ve yet remained a part of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Fine,” he interrupted, laughing slightly. _“Fine,_ Lyarra. Gods knows you’re correct- the Targaryens don’t deserve to rule over us. We Starks have bent the knee easily enough, but we only did it when dragons came. _Fine,_ we’ll do this.”

…

A month ago, Rickard would’ve kept silent. Before they arrived at Amberly, he’d have snorted. Now, he laughed: head thrown back, shoulders shaking.

…

“The world isn’t kind,” said Rickard.

Lyanna looked back at him. “Perhaps it isn’t,” she said. “Perhaps it isn’t soft, or kind, or forgiving. But that does not mean we give up on it.” Sunlight flashed off her eyes, the same shade as Rickard’s sword. “After all, who else is there?”

…

When they arrived back at Winterfell, Rickard went in first. Lyarra followed him, and the world seemed to pause for a moment, breathless, as she watched; then it ruptured open. Her mother raced out, embracing Lyarra, chastising her in the same breath she used to love her.

Rickard waited, warily, but his father didn’t step outside.

“Where is the Lord?” He asked, and Arya Flint, for the first time in Lyarra’s memory, hesitated.

“Come,” she said, and brought them inside the keep, leading them to a small room off of the main corridor.

Lyarra looked inside, and she saw a man she scarce recognized.

 _“Father?”_ Rickard asked, stepping closer to him slowly, as if in a dream. “Father, what _happened?”_

“An illness,” said Lyarra’s mother. “It claimed hundreds- thousands. Artos, and Errold, and Alysanne. Berena is in the Karhold, and there’s no word from there. Brandon died first, and then Artos; Edwyle got it last.”

Lyarra watched, horrified.

“What of- my father?” She asked.

Arya hardened slightly. “Gone, and good riddance to the scum. No, a better question would be where _you_ went.”

“To the Stormlands,” answered Lyarra, still watching Rickard, who had more grief written across his face than any man ever ought to. “To Branda.” She breathed deep and turned to face her mother. “I was worried.”

“About what? Branda is fine, I’m sure.”

“She has a son,” Lyarra told her. “A boy with her hair. Her husband is kind to her. He gives her amber jewelry and gives her control of their family’s finances. Branda is loved, Mother. That is- if you were wondering.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “I should have you whipped. What possessed you to go running off into the night? You knew your duty-”

“As you know yours?” Lyarra asked, shoulders pushed back, head held high, eyes steady on her mother.

“As I know mine,” agreed Arya.

“You live in the mountains of your parents home,” Lyarra said quietly. “You’ve spent a lifetime raging against my father for his absences, for his weaknesses. All Branda did was kiss a boy, and you sent her away and told her not to look behind. What of your faults, Mother? What of your flaws? Are we simply supposed to look away?”

“How _dare_ you-” She went to slap Lyarra.

Lyarra caught her arm. “I have looked away. I have done it, and now I tell you: _enough._ Both you- you and my father. You’re selfish. You’re selfish, and you don’t even accept that.” She stepped back. “There are forgivable things, Mother, but this is not one of them. You didn’t care about your own daughter- how? _How?_ And I swear to you, right here, right now, that this I will not forgive, nor forget.” She swallowed, and strangled her grief and doubt in her throat. Arya Flint was a mountain, and there was no room for weakness on a mountain’s sheer slopes. “My life, from now until the end of it, will be my own.”

 _It will belong to the North,_ she thought, hands fisted, feet planted, immovable. _I will go south and marry a Vale lord. I will love my children and raise them to love the North, and when the time comes, the Targaryens shall fall._

 _I will craft an empire, Mother,_ she thought, _and it does not matter to me whether you see it._

“I’ve always given you far too much freedom,” said Arya. “When we return to the mountains, you’ll be confined to your rooms-”

“I’m not returning to the mountains,” Lyarra said, ungentle. “And that’s a promise.”

She looked behind her, to Rickard, whose shoulders shuddered, curving in on themselves beside his father; then Lyarra turned on her heel, tilted her chin up, and walked away.

…

Rickard breathed in, breathed out, kept his feet walking, one foot in front of the other.

Lyarra was in the highest rooms in one of the towers, cramped and nearly dizzying. Her hair was neatly braided back and her face was freshly washed. Rickard didn’t wait for anything more than her greeting before stepping forwards, capturing her hands in his own.

“Rickard?” She asked, eyes widening. “Rickard, are you alright?”

It had taken him almost a month to stop calling her Lady Flint; Lyarra had refused to call him anything less than his name since the beginning. But her tone was kinder now than ever before, even if it wasn’t softer.

“My father will die,” he said, and his voice was steadier than he’d expected. “My father will die- soon. We were just in time.”

“Oh,” she mouthed, soundlessly. Lyarra reached up and embraced him, tight and warm. “I’m so sorry. It’s… this is terrible.”

“He wants me to do one thing,” said Rickard, pulling away.

Lyarra looked up at him. “What?”

“He wants to see me married. Before he dies.”

“Married to whom?”

Rickard just looked at her, and, after a long moment, saw realization spread across her face.

“No, _no-”_ Lyarra’s pale eyes narrowed sharply. “Rickard, what of our plans? What of the Vale? We cannot- one man’s dying wish doesn’t outweigh thousands of innocent lives!”

“He is my father,” Rickard replied, quietly. “Our plans were- long-shots. I don’t know if they could’ve ever happened in the first place. But my father is here, right now, in front of us; and he wishes for us to marry. I will not force you, Lyarra. But I will ask it of you.”

…

The cloak Rickard spread over Lyarra’s shoulders wasn’t overly different from her maiden’s cloak: white, instead of grey; blue, instead of black. She still wore her mountain braids, and bore Rickard’s sword across her back- he had Ice, now.

(Years later, she lost her braids for the singular one favored by the flatlanders. She knew that the others thought her docile for it, but Rickard had never asked her to be anything she wasn’t. It was only that Lyarra knew what came with being seen as an outsider, and after birthing two sons she wanted Winterfell to be home.)

But right then, all Lyarra did was smile, demure, and not once turn towards her mother through the entire wedding, feast, and bedding.

…

Edwyle breathed his last two days after their wedding; Lyarra took charge of the funeral, as Rickard wasn’t in any shape for it. Her husband didn’t weep, not once, not even in their bed; he only stared blankly through the ground. Lyarra forced herself to match his steadiness, inch for inch, moment for moment.

They’d get through this, the two of them. Neither of them knew anything less than to be strong. In the end, they were Starks: they endured, as the mountains did; weathered, perhaps, and scarred- but survival nonetheless.

…

When Lyarra birthed her second son, she saw his eyes: no Stark wolf-grey, rather Lyarra’s own mountain-stone.

 _This one,_ she thought, and reached for Rickard, laced her fingers through his. It was not love that lay between them, after all these years; it was something deeper. It was something hardier. _Oh, this one is_ mine, _do you hear?_

“He is a Flint,” she murmured, bearing him to her breast. “He deserves mountains, Rickard. This one will go to the Vale.”

…

Lyanna, her lovely girl, had all of Lyarra’s stubbornness and all of Rickard’s rage. She was wild, the wolf-child, and Lyarra feared for her as much as she was proud.

“Send her to the Stormlands,” she told Rickard. “Let her marry into the Baratheons. My sister will aid her. Lyanna’s always needed family.”

Rickard pressed a light kiss to Lyanna’s feather-soft hair, and nodded.

…

“This one to the Riverlands?” She asked Rickard, cradling Benjen.

“No,” he said. “No: this one goes to Dorne. You’ve heard, have you not? The Martells are allying with the Lannisters. And if Brandon marries into the Tullys, then we’ll have all the kingdoms save the Tyrells- and they’re quick enough to change their loyalties.”

“‘Tis a matter of years,” whispered Lyarra. “And then, the Targaryens will fall.”

…

Oh, the Targaryens _do-_ but Lyarra didn’t live to see it.

…

When Lyarra swore to tear down a dynasty, she never once dreamt of the price. Not once did she think that the cost of her pride, of her surety, of her rage would be her husband’s life, her eldest son’s.

The Targaryens fell, but Rickard fell first.

...

Rickard fell first; but Lyarra fell before.

It was a winter chill, stealing the breath from her bones. Rickard wept at her bedside as he hadn’t for his own father, and her children clustered around her bed like little ducklings. Lyarra didn’t have the air in her lungs to speak, but she could hold onto little Brandon, clutch his pale hand in her own.

 _Survive,_ she thought, forcing a smile for Rickard, for her children. _Endure. Live. You are Flints and Starks, and you shall take this world by storm. Tear it apart, the four of you: let the mountain gales and wolf-teeth shake everything we have known._

…

Years later, four Starks march down to Harrenhal.

(Her children never heard her words, but they meet her wishes nonetheless.)

(Westeros, in the end, is never the same.)

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: Lyanna.


End file.
